


Midnight Dreaming

by niksthename



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, action romance!, also, student!arthur, teacher!Eames
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:22:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niksthename/pseuds/niksthename
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don't have a beta, please don't hurt me!</p><p>Will try to update every week at least.</p><p>Dedicated to allmyovaries on tumblr, happy holidays dear and if anyone is reading this, FOLLOW THAT BLOG.</p><p>NOW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pasta

Arthur slumped in his chair and groaned when the syllabus for the year's class thunked on his desk. This was his third year taking Lit from Dr. Eames, and since the second semester of the first year, it seemed like every semester focus was aimed specifically at Arthur. This semester was “Midsummer Night's Dream” and next semester was, unusually, film-centric, featuring the themes of the classic action-romance (Arthur wouldn't realize until later in the day how damned ironic that was). Ariadne thumped him once on the knee and gave a warning glare as their professor looked over at him. “Problem, Arthur? You know, if you have a problem with the works taught you can consult me on how to better prepare my curriculum for university.” The other students laughed around him and he sank into his chair. “No, sir. I'm thrilled, especially for second semester.” He didn't see his professor raising an eyebrow at him, but he nearly felt it. “Oh dear, do I detect a hint of sarcasm? I guess you'll have to see where the class takes you as everyone else.” The exchange didn't last long and soon Eames was moving on with passing out the thick stack of papers, which was strange, because usually he passed out a stack and trusted one to get to every student. Arthur leaned close to Ariadne, muttering under his breath. “Midsummer Night's Dream?! You've got to be kidding, he's trying to kill me!”

Before Ariadne could answer with more than a confused face, a voice from the front of the room called their attention. Eames was ready to start class. “Ladies and gents, you'll noticed that you've all taken a class from me before, there are no new students here. You'll also notice, hopefully, that your curriculum is not the same.” Well, that explained Ariadne's face. “We'll be dealing with similar themes in each semester, but you'll all be examining them in your own appointed works. None of you has the same and this is the first time I've organized a class like this, so cheating is not an option. I would trust all of you, but a couple you try something foolish every bloody year, so good luck with this one.”

The rest of the class was sort of a null zone that Arthur will never remember, which, apparently, means he's in deep shit. “Arthur, how were you not paying attention!” Ariadne sounded exasperated as they walked to their next class. “I don't know your assignments, we all have different ones! You have to go back and ask after classes!” Arthur frowns, sighing as they get to the gym and part ways to change clothes. Of course he'd zone out the one time it mattered, that was luck, right? He was too distracted thinking about whether Dr. Eames was trying to send him a message or, more likely, he just had bad luck and should have picked another class. His brain hadn't functioned that way though, as soon as he started suspecting his teacher of trying to send him a message (rather pathetically) over a number of years, his brain wandered to what he'd look like trying to design a valid curriculum around sending a message to his student. Would he be a pen chewer? Arthur hadn't seen it in class. More likely he was a quick typist. Fingers flying over the keys, right ring-finger flying back to rapidly tap at the backspace key when he thought something was just a little too obvious...

It wasn't entirely Arthur's fault he was walking to his next class with a half-interested cock, besides, he had some time to try and will it away because he needed to change. He'd signed up for two new classes this year, determined to get healthier and more fit. It was going to kick his ass, since it was one class right after the other. He was just hoping and praying he made it through all three hours. He hadn't noticed until he'd gotten his schedule that it would be that much time, he'd sorta signed up for them on impulse. This was probably going to teach him to never do that again. Still, he was excited, and he almost didn't mind having to change in front of several other guys when he got into the locker room. He wasn't nervous at all, it was going to be fine, he wasn't totally going to get his ass handed to him and-

“Hey faggot, stop fucking looking at us!” So apparently high school was still a mentality here. “Don't flatter yourself, dickwad.” He didn't even look up, more focused on finishing changing and getting out with his stuff. Wasn't fast enough though, he felt his shoulder getting slammed into the locker and suddenly remembered why he'd wanted these classes. He really hoped these guys weren't taking the same kickboxing and self defense classes. “We see you sporting wood there, fucking queer! Take your shit to the girls locker room where the fucking fairies belong!” Arthur was beyond trying to fight back against the wall of the idiots behind him, but he wasn't changed yet either. Still, changing in the hall versus breaking a nose because he wouldn't move. He turned toward the door but it wasn't enough for them, apparently, because really, when is it ever enough?

Instead, he found himself on his hands and knees with his sweatpants around his ankles just outside the slamming locker room doors, his stuff scattered around him and his energy suddenly wavering a little. He didn't have to take these classes, he could just leave now and be none the wiser, it would be easy to drop out of the class, they might even refund some of the cost because he hadn't done anything. It's not like he cares about gym, he's never been any kind of athlete and this was the very reason. John reached down, scrabbling a little and trying to pull his pants up. It was just then that he noticed people behind him.

Dr. Eames (from Lit?!) had his hands around the backs of the necks of two boys, his thumbs pressed suspiciously over their arteries. Both boys looked panicked and John recognized them as the ones who'd thrown him out of the locker room. His teachers deep voice said, almost too sweetly, “Say you're sorry boys, and maybe I'll let you into class.” What? “We're not apologizing to that fag!” Arthur cringed and pulled his pants up swiftly, foregoing looking for his shirt and standing up. Eames' hand squeezed on the back of the boys neck, making him cringe. “Very well, I have you both for composition, don't I? Tonight you'll both do a research paper, six pages minimum, on the definition of fag and faggot and fairy and why that might offend Arthur or myself and turn it in at tomorrow's class.” Arthur didn't look up at his teacher, instead focused on how both boys looked like they'd been told football had been canceled. “And if I deem them anything less than remarkable and worthy of the Queen herself, you'll both fail the course and be forced to take it again next year.” With that he let them go, and both boys darted off back into the locker room. 

Stupid as it was, Arthur found himself shaking, and he was sure it wasn't because the hall was a bit chilly. Dr. Eames looked legitimately concerned and Arthur soon found himself with a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Arthur, darling, are you ok?” He looked up, seeing quite suddenly how close his professor was and taking a step back almost automatically. “Yeah, yes sir, fine. They're just assholes, is all.” Eames smiled warily. “But that would be an insult to assholes everywhere.” That made Arthur snort just a bit, his smile returning to him and in turn, brightening Eames'. It took him a second to shake it off, not wanting to stare too much as full lips stretching over slightly crooked teeth. His eyes flicked up to the clock on the wall and he sighed. “I have to go to my next class sir. Thank you for the help.” Eames looked at the clock too and frowned. “Without a shirt? I guess that's acceptable, no time to look for it. Hmm, off you go then.” He nodded toward the gym doors and Arthur grabbed his bag and took off.

\-------

The TA had told them to start stretching, so Arthur was with Ariadne, helping her stretch her calves. She was remarkably inflexible, unlike Arthur, who's long limbs and lean body would let him bend himself into a pretzel if he really tried. The door to the gym opened and everyone righted themselves and turned to the front of the room. Arthur's stomach dropped. “That's our Lit teacher!” Ariadne said excitedly, drawing looks from some of the other students. She was right, Dr. Eames was strolling towards them, wearing sweatpants and otherwise blessedly shirtless. And walking right towards him. Why was he walking right at him? What- “Boys, this class is for intelligent people who actually have a will to learn, not baboons who want to beat people up.” That made a lot more sense as Eames walked right by him and, much to Ariadne's amusement, grabbed Arthur's attackers by their ears and started leading them towards the door. “Had I known Brute and Brutus were going to be taking my class, I would have worn my special rainbow trousers and kicked you out all the sooner.”

One of the boys nearly spat at the professor. “You can't even fucking teach a class about kickboxing, fuckin' queer!” Arthur wasn't quite expecting Eames to relinquish his hold on the boys, even less expecting him to gesture to the rest of the class to sit. It took Ariadne knocking the back of his knee to remind him he was still standing, and he fell to the ground with a slight thump. He rather lamely noticed that he was the only other person in class without a shirt.

“Alright boys, since you seem to think that who a person prefers to sleep with can affect their ability to hold their own in a fight, let's test the theory. The two of you against me, if you can beat me, you can stay in class and I don't expect those papers tonight, if you can't, you'll flunk this class, composition, and I'll be sure to let your parents know what vile trash you searched on my computer last weekend. Are we ready?” Arthur thought that you could give either boy one of those Indian war headdresses and they could make a poster boy for the red man stereotype, they looked like they were chomping at the bit to take on their teacher, Arthur wasn't all that worried.

He let his eyes wander back to his professor, amazed that so many muscles could so easily been hidden by stupid shirts and sweaters. Admittedly, Eames had always dressed a little more casual for his classes, and Arthur was starting to wonder if it was simply because nothing else inconspicuously fit him. Chiseled wasn't the right word, people who looked sculpted didn't look real. Eames looked real, he looked like he worked for the torso of hard muscle, the rounded-out builds of his arms. He looked the definition of “bulked up.” Without all that muscle, he'd probably be a lot smaller and thinner, although Arthur rather preferred this. He was covered in tattoos, too, all over his chest and torso, one of them even looked new. He couldn't make them out clearly from this far away, but god he wished he could.

Arthur was distracted from his thoughts when he heard Ariadne coughing quietly, his eyes focusing out to actually watch. He shifted a little, folding his hands in his lap sneakily and watching both boys look at each other before lunging at Eames. The professor slipped sideways easily, his hand catching the upper arm of the taller boy and spinning him sideways. Eames' hand landed squarely between his shoulder blades, his foot catching the boy's ankle and throwing him forward. It took him a moment to recover and Eames turned his attention to the second boy, who had his arm around Eames' neck. Arthur marveled at the way his muscles moved as he easily flipped the other boy over his shoulder and landed him hard on his back on the floor. The first boy kicked out the back of Eames' knees and knocked him backwards, one arm catching himself on the ground and springing him over on top of the other. The boy looked panicked and tried to push him off, not succeeding in doing much more than making a few thumping sounds against the professor's chest. In a rather cheep shot, he tried to knee him in the groin, and was returned with Eames' kneeing him in the gut. Both boys were left wheezing as Eames' stood again, having hardly even broken a sweat. All the students clapped and Eames' looked right at Arthur, who may or may not have been cheering the loudest.

He definitely was not quitting this class.

\-------

Two days later, Arthur finally worked up the courage to slip into Eames' office and ask what his assignments were (the day before the first one was due). His teacher was reclining in a comfy-looking office chair, a wireless keyboard nestled in his lap, his feet up on the table. It looked like he'd just come back from his gym classes, he only had on the pair of shorts Arthur remembered from kickboxing that day and his fingers were still taped in places. Eames' neatly parted hair had gone loose from what must have been a shower and now looked a lot more casual, like he'd run a few fingers through it from time to time but otherwise left it alone. When the chair swiveled, his bare feet gracefully moving from one side of the computer to the next so he could face Arthur, the toothpick in the corner of his mouth stood out staunchly against his dark lips. Poor Arthur had no other logical option but to stare.

“Arthur, darling, you're not at all dressed for sparring. You can't hardly move that much in those skin-tight trousers you're wearing, at least not without serious chaffing.” Sparring? What Sparring?

“Why would we be sparring...?” Arthur felt a little lost. “I just came here to ask about my English assignments... I don't know what they are...” He couldn't help the sinking feeling in his stomach when his professor looked horribly put out and disappointed.

“Sparring, Arthur, you promised me end of class Tuesday you'd come 'round for some more practice. As for the assignments, I've been waiting for you to ask, there was a copy for each student on the way out of class. You're not usually this oblivious, not that I've noticed at least. Is something going on this year?” Yes, but that was completely beside the point and not the reason Arthur couldn't seem to remember anything Eames said to him. Still, sparring? He'd forgotten sparring? His hand zipped into his bag to grab his tablet and he was sure he looked more than a little frantic as he flipped through the calendar.

“Are you sure I promised you sparring? I can't believe I didn't put it in my calendar, I put everything in here, I would have remembered if I needed to-” A large, taped finger pressed the lock button on the top of tablet, making the screen go black and Arthur look up suddenly, finding his professor now very close to him. A paper dropped on the piece of technology in his hands.

“Those're your assignments. Now, if you have time, I still suggest we do some practice so your mate doesn't completely wipe your arse again.” He was right. Arthur personally didn't know where all that power was coming from but Ariadne had been ruthless to him every day this week in both classes. It was a miracle he was still alive after the total beating she served up two hours a day, every day. So Arthur nodded, grabbed his bag, and they both walked back to the gym to spar.

\-------

Arthur still wasn't entirely sure he was doing in college. He'd mostly taken and architect's and and English undergrad's class load, with a lot of filler classes in psychology and sociology, but he hadn't declared a major, or even thought about it.

Right now, he was still too busy to bother with it. Instead, he was working on a theory, one he'd come up with in his “sociology of torture” class or whatever it had been. He hated the idea of torture, but he understood the necessity, it would just be easier if you could sneakier about it, and that's what inspired the idea. Sneakily stealing information, and what told you more than your dreams? So what if you could tap a dream and steal whatever it reveals each night. Fuck, you could really ruin a person with it, which didn't actually stop Arthur from trying. He'd gone under a few times himself, experimenting with his roommate to get a drug that was just light enough to allow lucid dreaming. Yusuf had got it down near perfect, and now Arthur was playing with being more than an aware observer, he wanted to play.

It hadn't taken long for Arthur to figure out that time passed faster in a dream, and he felt like an idiot the first time he figured it out, which happened to be when it went under. Yusuf and him had set up to get a nice long session in, about their average sleeping time, six hours or so. Arthur came up screaming when he'd felt stuck in his own dream for what felt like three days and hadn't been able to do anything but watch homework and various versions of Eames taunt him. After that, they'd gone in increments of five, enough for an hour or two in the dream at a time. Arthur, being the kind of person he was, took meticulous notes on Google docs so he could reach them anywhere. To him, who cared about his fucking around with his chemist roommate?

Of course, naturally, Arthur was wrong about that.

\-------

Yusuf had put him out for 30 minutes, not willing to go much longer without wanting to redo the chemistry for a longer period. Six hours under was a nice long time and Arthur was just getting started when he awoke sharply well before then. He heard light cussing and his eyes flickered opened, only to slam shut again when he heard an unfamiliar voice.

“Dammit, I told you not to take that corner too sharp, we can't wake him up!” What the hell?

“We can't wake him up, remember? He said his roommate was putting him under and there was no other way to wake up but the stuff wearing off!” Obviously that was wrong, if being thrown around the back of a van could snap him out of it, there must be other things, too. He made a mental note to test that later when he got out of here. Assuming he could. Might not...

As Arthur looked around, he noted with disappointment that there was actually a lot to see. Hardly a movie moment, it was the back of surveillance van, computers with “Central Intelligence Agency” on the seal in the middle of each screen. Way to go for conspicuous, guys.

“Uh, excuse me, but am I under arrest?” The entire van swerved.

“Fuck, he's awake!” CIA his ass. Talk about oxymoronic.

“Yeah, I am, and I haven't heard any rights or seen a warrant or anything. Actually, I thought being thrown into a van constituted kidnapping.”

The two men murmured to each other and John here “pop's is gonna kill us” in the conversation. Right, so not CIA. The van slowed and Arthur decided it was best to pretend to be asleep. The voices sounded again.

“I said no stoplights! You know the CIA's got an eye on the kid we can't stop!”

“Well I can't just run the light!”

“Then find another way!”

That seemed enough to the other man because the van suddenly bolted and honking could be heard behind them. There was a sharp swerve and the sharp squeal of tires, the back of the van jolting to one side and throwing Arthur into the wheel well on the left side. His neck cricked and he looked up just on time to see one of the computers coming down on his, his hand flying up to protect his face just as the van halted and threw everything forward. Everything in the back of the van came unhinged and started falling around him, a server clocking him hard on the head. Light streamed into the back of his van and he felt the debris being moved away from him as he blacked out.

\-------~

Nice for a little information. Arthur woke up again in his bed in his appartment, still in the same clothes. Even his shoes were on. The only difference was the bandage on a nasty cut on his forehead. No notes, no information, nothing. It almost felt like it'd been a dream. Maybe it was a dream? New theory. He noted to himself and crawled out of bed.

The first thing was to take down all the notes hosted online and transfer them to paper. It didn't actually take long, Arthur had quick, legible handwriting and it only took three notebooks. Put them in his bag and decided he needed a better way to protect the only copy of his work, so he ran to the kitschy spy store by the student hub. The guy there said he could buy fireproof, waterproof bags to put stuff in, they'd only take a few days to come in. Arthur bought two pouches and then ran off to the bank with the intention of storing the notes. Halfway there he decided against it, but then that seemed too suspicious, especially if he was actually being watched and this wasn't a dream. That thought irking him, Arthur got to the bank, opened a lockbox, and left three empty notebooks in it. At best it should hold for a day or two, if it took much longer they weren't really as good at their job as Arthur would imagine. Whoever they were.

Once back at the apartment, Arthur tried to relax and tackle some homework, but he couldn't get his mind off the idea he was still dreaming. The scenario meant he could wake up without the device he'd made next to him and it could still be reality, but at the same time, there wasn't really a way to know if he was dreaming. He could try to change the dream but if he was already freaked out, his mind could stop itself from working, so that wouldn't be proof either. He needed something that would react differently in the dream. Something that would always stay stable in the real world, reliable.

With a split second of brilliance, Arthur dashed into his room, digging about in his closet for an old duffel bag. His sister had gotten married in Vegas a few months before and he hadn't yet unpacked the small bag. Inside, he found what he was looking for, a set of loaded die, made to land on the three. They were still in the original packaging. These would have to do, in a dream, they wouldn't land on three, the dream he was in wouldn't know what number to land on. In reality, the die would always land the same.

Unless someone else knew. Because if someone else knew about the dice and then dragged Arthur into a dream, they could fake the results. The security of the item was based on Arthur's familiarity with it, and no one elses. The ultimate safety net. That being said, he wasn't the first to touch these, and they were mass produced in bulk. He needed something only he was intimately familiar with. The loaded die idea appealed to him, especially given recent events. Arthur tore open the package, rolled the dice, decided it was reality, and headed off to the school's workshop.

\-------~

In the end, Arthur ended up with two acrylic red dice, one side weighted with a particularly heavy acrylic so it didn't appear any different, there was no way to tell the dice were loaded. When he rolled them, the one with the nick in the corner landed on three right away, the other rolling father before settling on a three as well. They wouldn't be easy to replicate, and only Arthur would know them well enough to use them as a tool. In scrawled in his notebook “totem” with the intent to play on the idea of something unique across the board without giving the idea away. It was time he started encrypting his notes so they were harder to read, anways.

He'd played around with the dice before getting an older device he and Yusuf had made and going under. He was out for two hours and when he woke up, his roommate was there smoking and watching him. Another couple hours and Yusuf had his own totem, but he wouldn't show it to Arthur at all which was probably for the best.

Twenty-four hours after waking up mysteriously in his bed, Arthur was sitting in his English class and flying high as fucking Bob Marley. He should have known better when Yusuf said the omelets had oregano. He was scribbling away in his notebook, completely unaware of class ending or no closer to coming down from it. Fucking Yusuf. Or maybe not, that t in his equation looked too much like a one and actually all his T's looked fucked up what that hell was with his handwriting-

“Arthur.”

He jumped and looked up slowly at the warm, concerned eyes of his teacher, admiring the way his brows seemed be drawing closer and closer together until he looked the way Arthur did trying to figure out vaginas.

It was actually funny the way Eames' eyebrows nearly jumped up his scalp suddenly and Arthur vaguely registered that his mouth was moving too. Ooh his mouth. The way his lips just lightly stuck to each other because they were dry from talking to the class. The class. Was he supposed to be paying attention? It seemed like everyone else was paying attention to something but he couldn't remember why, or even how they were paying attention when Eames was teaching the class. Arthur was an idiot for not taking the front row so he could be that much closer to those bright eyes, be that much closer to looking into them like he was now. Gosh, they got so big it was almost funny, he didn't know his professor could-

“ _Arthur._ ”

Arthur could only smile up at him, his chin coming to rest on his hand. It fell a moment later when he felt a strong hand at his upper arm pulling him up and out of his seat. Lovely fingers, long and strong and getting tighter on Arthur's arm and... ok that hurt a bit but that just meant there'd be bruises there and he could pretend it was from his lovely professor holding him down over the desk and-

“ARTHUR.”

“Yes, Mister Eames, sir?” His voice sounded rough and goofy to him, lord knows how it sounded to the older man.

“Shut up.”

“...what, sir?”

“Stop talking.”

Arthur took a few long minutes to look horridly befuddled as Eames moved around him, backing up his stuff quickly but carefully. He slung Arthur's bag over his shoulders along with his own, Arthur liked the way his muscles were more defined, especially his chest as the straps slipped right between his pecs and tugged the ugly sweater flat. Eames mumbled something Arthur didn't catch and a moment later, he was being dragged along behind his lit professor with the vague sense he was supposed to be going somewhere else.

\-------~

Food. He was definitely smelling food. Really delicious fucking food by the smell of it. Some kind of pasta...

He sat up swiftly, not entirely surprised to find himself in his bed this time, though it looked like a bit more care had been taken this time. His shoes were off, he'd been stripped down to his tank top, and he'd been reasonably tucked in. When Arthur finally made it out to the kitchen, there was a big pot of fettuccine and a note on the counter. Before he even looked at the note, Arthur grabbed a bowl and dished himself up some dinner, he was starving. After the first bowl was sufficiently packed away, he fingered the note open with one hand, the other serving up more of the amazingly well-made pasta.

_Arthur-_

_My office, 7 pm._

_Dr. Eames._

Well. Shit. At least he had food.


	2. Burgers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: For Mercutio's voice, imagine Stephan Rudnicki with a slightly thicker accent, face is up to you.
> 
> Again, no beta yet, don't hurt me.

Eames' office at 7 pm in late October with no windows was fucking dark. Darker than dark. Downright eerie.

“Doctor Eames?” He called out quietly, knocking lightly on the door. It opened with a creak and he could make out the shadow of someone in the doorway. A second later, a cloth was being held up to his nose and mouth and he swooned into strong arms. He really needed to get a can of mace or something, this was getting frustrating.

When Arthur awoke again, he was relaxing in a comfy office chair with a bunch of strong, dark, and silent types watching him with concern. For fucks sake.

“You've gotta be fucking kidding me. What is it now? For once I'd like to wake up knowing I actually put myself there.” He pushed himself up in the chair and grimaced, his back aching more than he'd expected. The men were still all standing around and watching him. Wonderful.

“Look, not that I'm not flattered or anything, you guys are totally my type, but I've got my eye our for someone else right now. Could I at least go home? I'm done with all this kidnapping and occult crap.” They shifted uneasily, throwing looks at each other. Finally, a darker, older man steps forward. His accent is heavy on his tongue, the words slurring a bit too much while some vowels sound painfully sounded out, like he knows he can't say them well in the Queen's English. Arthur things his voice must sound lovely in his native tongue, not clunky and heavy like he does now.

“It iz a plezure to meet you, mizter Pendzergahm.” Arthur doesn't thing he's ever heard his name sound so strained and weird in someone else's mouth. His Ts are short and thick, his voice low, and any sound against his teeth takes on a buzzing lilt to it. It sounds positively orgasmic, not that that's an appropriate thought. “We apologize for thiz treatmant, but you had to be secured. Unfortunately, it iz not zthe buisness of zthe CIA to allow civilianz to know where we... set up shop, as it were.” Even the Ps sound thick, all his worlds accented and slow. It's very pleasant, Arthur could get lost in it if not for the actual information being relayed.

“The CIA? Is that where I fucking am? Why? What the hell do you want with a psych student in his junior year?” Actually, he's pretty sure he knows what. It's in a fireproof, waterproof, locked bag in his satchel. The man before him looks concerned, Arthur thinks he knows why. “What even is your name?”

He tensed, and Arthur kinda figured that that would be the case. Of course it would, because these people didn't have names, according to movies. “My name iz Agant Mercutio.” Arthur snorted audibly. “You are here conzerning your... rezearch wizthin dreams. Az I 'am sure you've noticed, your work has proven interesting to some very powerful people. We would have contacted you zsooner, but we were given espress orders to leave you alone afzter zthe kidnapping to zee how you would cope wizth it. Unfortunately, we do not count getting high during class as coping.”

Arthur bristled. “I didn't know my roommate was going to put pot in my omelets! That's hardly my fault!” He stood up angrily, no longer willing to sit and have these men loom over him. His arms crossed as his chest and Arthur suddenly realized his shirt was unbuttoned and his tie was gone. He looked bewildered and stared back at the man angrily. “There better be a good fucking reason my shirts undone and my tie is missing. If you're really CIA, lets see some ID and some protocol, this can't be how debriefing or whatever you fucking call it is done.”

'Agent Mercutio' looked about ready to answer when someone else stepped forward. His roommate light up and moved quickly to Arthur's side, looking for all the world like he wanted to say something but he didn't believe it was safe. Eames was trailing behind him, and Yusuf sent him a nearly murderous look, more than Arthur knew the stoner chemist could ever muster. Arthur, as much as he admired the tight shirt and slightly snug old jeans Eames was wearing, he was more inclined to side with Yusuf on this, the situation didn't feel right. He leveled Eames with a pointed glare and didn't give away the fact that he saw his tie tangled in Eames' fingers. Another agent spoke up from the sidelines, an attractive young woman standing by Eames' side. It was becoming quickly apparent that Eames belonged among these people, he was at ease with them and it looked like he fit in. Even so, his shoulders relaxed more visibly the closer the woman came. _They probably sleep together._ Arthur thought bitterly.

“Arthur.” Her accent was French. Since when did the CIA become so... not-American? “Agent Eames here caught you earlier, when you were in his office, you still hit your head and you were breathing very hard for a while. He had simply wanted to ensure that you were ok. After that, he went to speak with Yusuf about your... breakfast.” That would explain why Yusuf looked personally offended, they probably made him fess up all his pot stashes. Still, this seemed very... not quite like a legitimate government agency. Arthur's eyes looked for an exit but of course, none were easily found. He quietly stepped a little in front of Yusuf and glared at all the agents surrounding them in a loose circle.

“Look, I don't know who you are or what your interests are, but I'm not convinced. A branch of the American government would not have so many foreigners, especially not with today's politics, you are not who you say you are. I'm half inclined you're the same people who tried to kidnap me two days ago, since they also claimed to be CIA with the prop computers in the back of their van. Furthermore, I don't know what you want with my research. My roommate and I were simply fucking around with the idea of lucid dreaming, it doesn't matter.” Arthur and Yusuf both knew there was more to it but he'd kept that research mostly in his head. Again, all the 'agents' exchanged nervous glances between one another. This time Eames stepped forward and Arthur was rapidly losing interest in his teacher, because this shit did not make for good sex dreams.

“Arthur, darling, you're right, we're not CIA. We're MI6.” Arthur rolled his eyes and his 'professor' rushed on quickly. He dug something out of his pocket and tossed it to Arthur from a distance. It was a small ID badge, used for things like getting through doors. “We don't carry those unless we're on base, when it's crucial, but they have our government-registered names, jobs, and clearance levels. There's a watermark somewhere on there, too, but I've never been bothered to check. Also current covers on the back.” The older man watched them, seemingly anxious for Arthur to actually check. He gave the badge a once-over before handing it to Yusuf to inspect. 

_Daniel M. Eames  
14 July 1977  
Intelligence, Document Forging & VIP Protection  
Clearance Level 9  
Currently: Professor of Literature, Kickboxing, Self-defense, and assorted art classes._

There was a picture imposed over an official seal, Yusuf proclaimed it to be real. After a moment of thought, Arthur gave Eames an expectant look. Without question, he continued. “Really, the information you've been researching attracted attention in our military training department. They sent it off to our hackers who traced back to see where it was coming from and who else had seen it. Not long after that, you took it all down, they thought it safe to delete the rest. When they found your... rather lacking security measures, it was decided we should intervene. By then you were in my class completely stoned and we weren't sure what to do with you. We're actually not sure who took you the first time, let alone who brought you back to your flat. Our interests only expand so far as recreating dangerous situations for training without any real injury to the soldiers.” Because Arthur was totally supposed to believe that. “We won't press you for further information without your consent, which really we require because it seems we can't make heads nor tails of the code in your notebook.”

“You're sure it was right side up?” He bit back sarcastically, his arms still crossed. “If you're trying to crack the notes, I don't exactly believe you're not going to do anything with them. What are the odds of my roommate and I walking out of here alone and being able to carry on without intervention.” The dark woman again.

“Very slim, Arthur, even if we were to let you go, you would need protection from those who would not be burdened with morals and laws. Perhaps... we can let you be on your way for now, and we will revisit the topic later? As long as you take protection, we will accept no for now and only push you when we feel we can make a contribution. We already know your hardware is suffering, you will need more soon. A compromise, Arthur?”

The young man narrowed his eyes and looked to his roommate. Immediately, Yusuf just muttered. “They took me too, Arthur, I wouldn't mind protecting. If we give them plans to make the device, they cannot actually do anything with it, is that so bad?” It was convincing, but there were still questions in the air.

“Why did you call yourself CIA?” He shot at Mercutio.

“In case you had encountered them already, it would easier to tame you thinking you were safe.” That was logically flawed.

“What if they'd tortured me, I wouldn't be so calm now would I?”

There was a distinctly uncomfortable silence that almost made Arthur laugh. “Fools. Fine. I'll decode the parts about building the device, alone, so you can't see, and we each get someone to protect us at the apartment. It doesn't come up again until both are finished to exact specifications. Do we have a deal?” A few of the agents looked uncertain but both Eames and Mercutio nodded. Arthur hadn't noticed the woman's disappearance until she came back with his satchel and what must have been Yusuf's bag. Evidently she hadn't missed anything in her absence.

“Very well. You and your friend can leave here, with agents Eames and Mercutio, you can figure out rooming back at your flat. When you have directions to the device you speak of, one of them will deliver it to us and we will start work on it. Until we finish it and must revisit the issue, you have their protection. You may check your bags if you wish, but everything is there. Copies have been made of your notes and your... protection for it has been upgraded. You will see. Do you have anymore questions?”

Arthur did, one very serious one. “Why Eames?” It wasn't his fault the man looked more than a little put out by the question. Mercutio returned the answer.

“He is the best among us, especially in fighting, he has worked longer than all of us. You see it in his badge, the only one with a higher security level is Mal and she is the director here. I'm afraid I only have level five, but we cannot give away our best men now can we? You will be safe either way.” Arthur personally wanted to say more but Yusuf tugged on his sleeve and shook his head.

“Fine. Then we're leaving now, and no one is putting me under to do so.” Honestly, he expected a fight with that one, but Eames simply nodded and started walking towards what must have been an exit. They were back in Eames office five minutes later and Yusuf was still blabbering about how he didn't know elevators could move that way or be so easily hidden. Nobody else said anything, least of all Arthur, who kept his gaze steely and his lips in a thin, distasteful line.

\-------~

Arthur was just about ready to kill Yusuf. The little shit had practically winked at Arthur when he insisted Mercutio be _his_ agent, leaving Eames to Arthur. Apparently it made sense anyways because he already had three classes with Eames and now was going to be having all of his classes with him, unless Eames had an off period and could go with Arthur to another class he didn't personally teach. His roommate looked even cockier when, after a light nudge, insisted it would be safer for them to sleep in the same rooms. They could have spare beds brought it and while it might be closer quarters, it would be a lot safer that way. Arthur was nearly ready to hurl and Eames didn't look much better.

Still, his professor-slash-new bodyguard had insisted on making dinner. Yusuf said it wasn't necessary and Eames almost believed him until Mercutio dug out their sole source of food; a pallet of top ramen and a pack of specially-made pot seasoning. Eames looked like his ego had been personally offended.

“Arthur, darling, no wonder you always look so thin. That's bloody rediculous, do you even get any protein?” In response, Yusuf proudly held up a box stuffed with beef jerky. Mercutio thought it was hilarious and Eames nearly punched him.

“I'm making dinner. It is possible to be a poor college student without starving, you know.” Arthur wasn't actually poor, but ok. He wasn't about to tell either of these men that. He wasn't even sure Yusuf knew that, actually. Oh well, better that way.

\-------~

It was better that way, it afforded Arthur the opportunity to see Eames cook. As it was, Arthur always respected men who could cook, seeing as no one in his own family could except his mother, who had taught him. More to the point, Eames looked ravishing when he was cooking. Their kitchen was small and Eames was cooking things at high temperatures, so he'd gone down to a simple tank that showcased the glorious tattoos of his, especially the one scrawling across his collarbones. His hands were surprisingly delicate and focused when he was cutting or chopping, the way he gripped a knife was nearly obscene, both in a good way and a bad way. No one should ever grasp a knife like that when cutting anything unless it was a... right. Never mind.

“Do you need help at all, Mister Eames?” The man looked somehow disturbed of a reverie when he looked at Arthur, his eyes mysteriously unreadable.

After a long pause in which Arthur felt he was being examine came, “Sure, Arthur. Would you horribly mind finishing up the chopping here? I need to turn the steaks...” Of course, he agreed, and as soon as he had Eames looked like the happiest person in the world, for no discernible reason other than Arthur's willingness to help. Odd.

Rather than turn his back to Eames, Arthur chopped quickly and neatly on the other side of the counter, watching the way the other's muscles moved as he flipped steaks and wiped sweat off his brow. Stunning Arthur thought, his eyes taking in all the lines and grooves caused by different muscles. It was only when Yusuf poked him sharply in the side that he came round from it and realized he was done chopping.

“Keep it professional, eh? Now he's your bodyguard as well as your teacher.”

Arthur looked at him coolly, Arthur with his slicked back hair and his vests and slim shirts and ties and tight collars and fitted pants, his one eyebrow raised in amusement. “When am I ever unprofessional, Yusuf?” His roommate just shook his head and turned away.

\-------~

As it turns out, Arthur was unprofessional a lot. At least, he would call it unprofessional having these thoughts in the only shower while three other people waited for their turn. He'd have to make it quick, honestly he wouldn't do it at all but it was too late for that. He purposely turned the water colder to save it for the others, then leaned back against the wall and let himself have at it. Arthur was pretty no-nonsense about this, and he didn't tease or toy with himself before wrapping his hand around his cock. This was more for the release than it was for the fun, and his hand flew quickly over hot skin, the water roughening the way just a bit but he hardly noticed. After a few minutes of the same, military movement, he let hid head fall back against the wall of the shower, swallowing back a moan. It wasn't that he didn't want to be heard, he just didn't want to make a show of it. There wasn't any reason to moan, it was just a release.

Arthur jerking off in the shower was like a formula. After a few minutes of the same rapid stroke, he'd switch to fucking his fist. Usually that got him close enough to finish off, if not, he'd slip his thumb over the head a few times and that had always done it. This time was different. It didn't matter what he did, what part of the formula he changed, he wasn't quite there.

He wasn't quite there until he heard a knock on the door, followed by a worried “ _Arthur?_ ” in that delectable English accent and the image of Eames when he'd first started the kickboxing class invaded his mind. Then he came, and he couldn't hold back the moan that time, his jaw going slack and his lips falling open as he spilled over his own hand. That felt like more than a release, but Arthur wasn't so sure he was happy with the new addition to his formula.

When he finally stepped out of the bathroom, he was faced with knowing smirks from all three men. “Oh get off your high horses, it's not like you're all going to do the same.” Yusuf looked like he was about to crack, the fucker. Mercutio was giving his worst impression of an innocent face, and Eames was over there looking about as red in the face as Arthur probably looked. He huffed to himself, ran a hand over his damp hair to make sure it was still slicked back, and stormed back to his room. It didn't entirely surprise him to find the small padded cot on the floor on the other end of the room, still neatly made.

\-------~

It seemed Arthur was more tired than he'd thought. He'd pretty much flopped on his bed when he'd made it too his room and it seemed his head on the pillow had been enough to knock him out. When he awoke again, it was nearing two AM and he could hear soft voices just outside his door.

“Whats your role in all this then?”

“Right, because you spy-guys don't know.”

“You'd be surprised what little intel we get sometimes, Yusuf. What's he need from you?”

“I do the chemistry. Usually when you fall asleep you just pass out, there's no level of control to it. Arthur had a crude understanding of chemistry and the brain and he wanted help making a sedative that kept you in the half-way place where you're a bit awake, but you're asleep enough for lucid dreaming. Then it became more than getting you there, you had to stay there, because otherwise the power of it is enough to wake you up. Then we had to start using a timer to test the doses, so I'd measure it out and keep data on how much different amounts and concentrations would keep him under. While he was down there, he'd keep track of how long it felt and then we'd apply the data so we had controlled ways of going under for controlled amounts of time. Once he's under, though, he can't wake up.” Ok, technically not true anymore, so props to Yusuf for lying about it.

“So you're his chemist and assitant?”

“Yeah, only where he needs me though. Otherwise he keeps it to himself. I mean, he'll share if I ask, he just doesn't bother. I don't mind, I don't understand half of it anyway.”

“So you are vital to his research then?”

“Bloody well right I am, he can't do the chemistry. He gets too fiddly with it and hung up on what should work versus trying to find a way to make it work.”

“Then he's OCD?” There was an annoyed scoff. “Do you have something to add, Eames? You've taught him for over three years.”

“He's not OCD, or even... anal retentive.” Ooh, the way he said that. “He's just... he gets hung up on his idea of how it should go and keeps going that way, even if it doesn't work. Although, more often than not, he'll make it work. He's turned in more than a few papers that shouldn't have made sense, and yet he forces them through and comes to a remarkably unusual conclusion at the end. Honestly, I'm surprised he's experimenting with this. I've never known him to like the unknown.”

“He likes you well enough and clearly he doesn't know you all that well.”

“What?”

“He does. He won't shut up about you. I know less about Ariadne than you because every time I ask, it comes back to 'Eames did this' or 'Eames did that' or 'how bloody stupid of him to assign it differently how will some of those students survive they can't spell their own names!' It gets really bloody annoying sometimes, I put pot in his eggs just to shut him up.”

“That actually didn't work.”

“Why, what did he say?”

“Nothing in particular, he just talked a lot.”

There as an oddly long pause before Mercutio's voice picked up again.

“It's time for bed. Eames, I need to speak with you.” Another pause. “What did he say?”

“His internal monologuing became external, it was nothing unusual. He's a horny teenager with a wonderful libido and an attractive professor.” Arthur could hear the smirk.

“Eames, don't be an idiot. I heard you in the shower, I know this isn't one-way but it's not what we're here for. We have to protect him, when the whole matter settles over we move on, you know that. Let him have his shower fantasies, keep your guard up and don't let him know you have your own.”

“Mercutio, darling, you know I have a higher clearance than you. I've done this before, don't make me bring up Spain. It'll settle just fine.”

“Fine, but be careful Eames. He's smarter than those blond bimbos we so favor.”

\-------~

Arthur had just enough time to strip out of all but his boxer-briefs and stretch out on top of his sheets before Eames came in. He relaxed entirely, evening his breath and pretending to sleep. It was hard to tell if Eames was moving around the room, if he was he was being pretty damn quiet. A few minutes later, Arthur felt a warm blanket being draped easily over his body, which was timely because he was starting to get cold in the chill. A few fingers curled tentatively through his hair and he almost stirred but not quiet. He heard the cot creak and stayed still for several more minutes until he heard light snoring. Eames was asleep.

Or so he thought. Arthur sat up as quietly as he could, looking over at the man. His gaze was met by bright gray eyes looking back at him, and that was all he saw. Arthur's eyes and mind completely grazed over the fact that he was shirtless, that his hair was damp and mussed in a way he'd never seen it, that there was a blanket low around his waist. No, the only thing he saw were eyes. Bright, sharp, piercing eyes that could nearly see though him, if he stared long enough. Eyes that were unguarded, not ready to be seen, that hid mixes of pain and adventure and horror and wonder. Eyes that could hide anything, but weren't right now. That weren't hiding a low heat, something a younger, more romantic Arthur would have called passion. The longer he looked, the more intense the gaze looked. The more it hurt to look, like taking your sunglasses off on a bright beach over and over again, blinded from all sides with no hope to adjust. It got to be too much, and like a coward, Arthur dropped back into the bed, pulling the blanket tighter around him and not quite looking away from the cot as Eames did the same.

After a few minutes, Arthur reached into his side drawer and rolled the two dice, sighing when they landed on threes.

\-------~

This was so fucking frustrating. All day, he kept accidentally locking eyes with Eames. First over breakfast, then over coffee before class, then during class again and again. The third time, he grabbed a spare notebook and started writing what he thought he saw in them. Anger. Confusion. Surprise more than once. Frustration. Concentration. It felt like his whole day was skating by on those looks, the rest of it didn't matter. Until it did.

“Arthur, have you heard anything I've said to you all day?” Eames sounded more than a little exasperated and Arthur realized they were both sitting at his desk, the professor going over papers. Evidently the one he was on was Arthur's. “You've been absent all day, what are you thinking about?”

“Something with the dreams.” He lied smoothly, and actually, it had been bugging him, but fairly passively today.

“...oh. Would you like to talk about it?” The pen in his hand had already been set aside.

“Only if you promise not to tell MI6 about it.” Actually, he was nearly joking, but Eames looked serious.

“That was the deal, Arthur, and they've only just started on the designs, they couldn't do anything yet anyways.”

“Oh. Ok. Well, when whoever it was that got me the first time, I'd been under. Yusuf had set it up for half an hour under, that's about six hours worth of time in the dream, but I woke up after about an hour. It was when the van had swerved and knocked me into the wall. I think a jolt like that can wake you before the drugs wear off, which gives you more control over getting in and out of the dream. I also had another idea...”

“What's that then?” Eames looked attentive.

“In a dream, when you die, you wake up or start a new dream. I thought... well I've never been able to start a new dream, it's just all ongoing. So maybe if I die in the dream, I wake up. I haven't gotten to test it though.”

For a few seconds, Eames looked very focused and serious. “I think we should go back to the flat and try it. But with me, not you, in case something goes wrong.” He'd already started packing up the papers and various things that needed grading.

“No offense, but why would I ever let you into the dreamscape? You could totally fuck it up and get both of us hurt. Not to mention it's not exactly a private place, the only one who's ever been down there with me is Yusuf and that wasn't for long and we nearly got killed in the process.”

“Arthur, my job is to protect you. Would you rather go to an art class you've never taken before or feed what I know to be undying curiosity and experiment within the dream?” Arthur's face must have said it all. “Exactly. However, as it is my job to protect you, I'll help with the experimentation from now on so you don't get hurt. I'll be the test subject this time.”

He honestly hated the idea, but at the same time, it would make some things easier to have a willing test subject. “Fine, but we're not getting into the other stuff until I know you're acquainted with the dreams well enough to maneuver them safely.”

“Fair enough.”

\-------~

Unfortunately, Eames was having no dream exploring until Yusuf where there to deal with the dosage, and Yusuf was at a party and wasn't going to be back until 2 am or later. They'd already skipped on classes so they had all evening to prepare, as it were, for Eames to go down with him. So far it was an interesting challenge.

“No, you don't... you're clearly not listening. You can't bring anything down there, you imagine it. Anything you want and need has to be imagined to be created, and you can't create things willy-nilly.”

“Why not? What's to stop me from creating a bigger gun to use more effectively than you?”

“Because if you make things to noticeable, my brain will attack you.” Arthur nearly snapped. They'd been over this already!

“How? Your brain doesn't attack your dreams when you're asleep, why would it do it now?”

Oh for fuck's sake. “Because you're not me. You're an outside party messing with my mind, it doesn't like that because it's not in control. My dream makes these things- Yusuf called them projections -that attack when there's unwarranted meddling. They can be trained and I accidentally taught a few to be quicker on the draw and more violent, so whatever changes you make have to be small, hardly noticeable until you notice them and then it seems natural that they were there. If you go around just making things at leisure and we're not in your dream, my brain will literally try to kill you.”

“Can't you just call them off?”

“NO! Jesus fuck, for a top-of-the-line agent you're a fucking idiot sometimes. It's my subconscious, I can't control it!”

“Arthur, darling, you wound me.” He said dramatically, sitting up and pretending to be mortally wounded. Eames had no idea Arthur was to wanting to actually inflict just such a wound.

“Fuck you too, asshole. You're lucky if I ever let you down there, the way you're acting all cocky and assumptive. Now, we need to talk about-”

“Arthur.” He looked up sharply, ready to snap when he met Eames' eyes again. They looked soft and concerned. “Let's relax and have some dinner, ok? We can return to this once we've had a break. I apologize for seeming like a right twit, ok?” The elder stood and moved towards the kitchen, beckoning to Arthur with a wave of his hand. Fine.

\-------~

They were making burgers. At some point Eames must have gotten ground beef because Arthur didn't ever remember buying any. The first thing to do was 'soak' the beef in some special mixture Eames wanted to make.

“You're kidding, right? What's wrong with making a burger straight up?

“Arthur, don't be like that. It will taste so much better than anything you've ever had.”

“I've been to Paris.” He said bluntly.

“And I learned this recipe there, so you won't be disappointed.” Eames had the cockiest, most self-assured smile Arthur had ever seen. The one crooked tooth pushing at his lip somehow made it better. The small imperfection made it seem less entitled and more confident than if a male model had been doing it. Arthur nodded once and gave up, they'd do it Eames' way. Cheeky bastard.

Eames wanted Arthur to do it so he could learn. It involved instant mushroom soup mix, breadcrumbs, eggs, milk, and a bit of tomato juice heated at a low temp until it bubbled some particular way. Eames was hovering behind him, watching to make sure he did every step correctly, including the very concentrated and anal way Eames measured spices. Arthur liked to be particular, yes, but there was a fine line between thorough and ridiculous and Eames had stepped well over it. Not to mention, it was positively maddening to have Eames so freaking close up his back without actually touching him at any point.

“Eames, I don't understand what that tiny granule of oregano was going to do that made you so angry.”

“Arthur, it's about flavor. A tiny bit more could have completely ruined it. You're not supposed to actually taste it.”

“...then why did we put it in there?”

“Because it helps emphasize the nutmeg.”

“Then why not use more nutmeg?”

“Because it would affect the color and the way it cooks.”

“You've got to be kidding me.”

“Arthur, relax.”

“You're the one being OCD about spice measurements.”

“Yes, because cooking is supposed to relax you.”

“It's not relaxing me.”

There was a soft sound from Eames' throat, something nondescript. “Here, it's ready, move it off the heat.” He did as he was told. His professor reached around him and plucked up the spoon, holding it up to Arthur's lips. “Try it and you'll see.”

Arthur did try it, and Eames was right. “Holy shit. That's going in the burgers? Can't we just eat it now?” Eames laughed right in his ear and he turned to look at him, their faces way to close, and yet again, he locked eyes with him. It was so close, just before one would start going cross-eyed, and holy shit how much more he could see this close up.

“There's a little on your lip, still, Arthur.”

Ever the unprofessional, Arthur says, “Have to get that then.”

Eames does. He smears the small dollop of soupy mix between their lips before flicking his tongue out to lap it up. Arthur can feel the light tickle of his taste buds over his lip, can feel the slight lines and cracks when their lips are together again. He can feel the tiny ridges in Eames' teeth as he runs his tongue over them. There's so much there, and it's more than making out with a stranger, with someone you might have a brief fling with. There's so much more to learn and know from this, the way Eames' kisses him like he hasn't had this chance in a long time (which can't be right), the way he so gently responds to Arthur's first-timer tactics. Not that he hasn't kissed anyone before, it just hasn't been like this. There's more there, and it's terrifying.

The pot on the stove is long forgotten as Arthur turns himself towards Eames. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, he's never had reason to learn or even think about it. Evidently, he doesn't need to. Eames' fingers twine within his own and that's just great, because now it feels like something, more than something, more to it than just two attractive people pawing at each other. Eames turns them, backs them up against the counter, and suddenly Arthur realizes quickly where this is going, that it's going there fast. It's just release, but with another person, but still the same, but not because he's been admiring this man for three years and that sounds just pathetic in Arthur's overworking mind. It doesn't matter though, because he has him now, and it's not what he was expecting. He was expecting victory, the feeling of breaking rules, the thrill of rebelling that he nearly never had cause to feel before. It wasn't how he felt, though. It felt right in every way, to finally be here, to be going this direction. It wasn't unnerving or unsettling.

There were hands sliding over the backs of his thighs and lifting him up onto the table. Lips broke away from his own and were speaking softly. “Do you trust me, Arthur?”

Yes. “Yes.” Yes he did. It was odd, but he trusted this man, despite all the change the last forty-eight hours had brought him, three years of learning from this man, writing incredibly challenging papers for him, the only ones that really pushed Arthur's abilities, and he trusted him. Even now, he trusted him for guidence, for support, for safety even. Maybe it would change, or there was something about this very moment, but he trusted him.

Release. That's all this was and have ever been, was release. It would be quick, the real pleasure was still in the kissing, but they would both be satisfied at the end. And yet, the way Eames' hand slipped into his jeans (when had he undone them?) felt like so much more than release. The light slip of a thumb over the head of his cock felt like a promise, but for something else. Fingers tugged slowly and it was like he had become a puppet, a long whimper being drawn out of him right into Eames' mouth to be swallowed up and savored. Again and again, drawing noises from him slowly and devouring them, like frosting from a funnel, ever sound sweet and slow to come but worth it. Only when Arthur got a sweet taste of his own did he realize Eames was growing as desperate as himself, yet with no assisting hand to help him along. As soon as the injustice was realized, Arthur's own hand slipped down, his own quick and jaunty style so different from Eames' it must have jolted the man. It certainly drew the most lovely sounds from them. Neither man lasted long, their pace becoming more quick and desperate, breaths shorter between kisses, hips moving up urgently, until finally, Arthur could feel the flood of heat in his hand and his belly, taste the delectable moan on Eames' tongue, let himself be dragged down by it. This was so much more than release, this was pleasure he'd never known before. A soft “No...” fell from his lips as the last of his orgasm died out. Eames broke away and for a split second looked worried before Arthur's voice, quiet and smooth, calmed him. “Didn't want it to end.”


	3. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reminder that I do not have a beta at all ever. please be forgiving at least a little.

Making dinner afterward was strange. They'd both gone back to Arthur's room to clean up and change clothes and then went about finishing dinner, including soaking the meat in that stew or whatever Eames had helped him make. It was strangely quiet, and Arthur would periodically begin to feel watched. He'd look over just on time to see Eames looking away, and then only remember to look away himself when Eames looked back. It was an awkward dance the whole evening, even more so when Yusuf and Mercutio got back. It seemed like every time he got caught staring at Eames, Yusuf would clear his throat and draw his attention away, just as Eames was looking to him again. Then, several minutes later, it would be Mercutio. Everyone agreed that it was too late to do any safe experimenting and it was decided they should start turning in.

Arthur went first, already tired from his... activities, earlier, and just generally ready for bed. He stripped down to nothing like he normally would without guests and slipped between the sheets, his head falling heavily on the pillow in that satisfying way only a long tiredness can cause. As per usual, he didn't fall asleep right away, and once again he was able to hear a conversation outside his door.

“Eames, I do not need to tell you how dangerous and foolish this is!”

“You worry too much.”

“Do not turn this around on me, Eames, you know it is dangerous and yet you continue, you break the very rules you promised not to break. Eames, it is too risky to continue following your... hips, instead of your head.”

“It'll be fine, Mercutio, relax.” There was a long pause.

“You are compromised, I can tell. You are not thinking of his safety you are thinking of his bed! You will get him hurt because you do not care! If you must have someone to warm you-”

“I am not letting him warm me, I am not thinking of his bed! He's been my student for three years, Mercutio, he's bloody brilliant, the best student I've ever had, and far more grown up than he has any right to be. This is not about some boy, he is more important to me, he is more important to us, and he is more important to the men trying to kill him, than you give him credit for. And I would keep an eye on Yusuf, he seems a right idiot but if you actually believe that for a second, they will get him.”

Arthur shut his eyes quickly when the door was jerked open, producing an angry Eames, and then slammed again on Mercutio's quizzical face. He couldn't really face Eames knowing he was awake after hearing that, so he relaxed his body and regulated his breathing, hoping the other would be tired enough to be fooled.

Not that it mattered, he couldn't pretend anymore once Eames slipped into bed next to him. Arthur... wasn't actually sure how he felt about it, but his first reaction was definitely a noise of protest, followed by squirming as a heavy arm draped over his waist and pinned him down. He was going to actually say something, but Eames headed him off at the pass. “Go to sleep, Arthur, and do not concern yourself.”

Like that was going to happen.

\------~

“Do either of you have any classes today?”

“You have shitty intelligence for MI6. Is it really that hard to hack the school computers and check out our class schedules?”

“Don't get smart, Yusuf, we promised you privacy until the device was done being built.”

“You weren't complaining about how smart I was being at the party last night.” Mercutio glared daggers at him and Yusuf snickered. Eames and Arthur simultaneous looked at each other and Arthur huffed in annoyance.

“No classes today. We usually do experimenting on Saturday. Perhaps we could start on that today, since we couldn't yesterday.” Eames cleared his throat and Mercutio looked bitter. Yusuf seemed excited by the very prospect and pointedly finished his breakfast in a few bites. Mercutio switched to looking uncertain.

“Oh come on, Eames and I started yesterday before we broke for dinner, and it would be good for him to get the information through his thick head at least once more. Yusuf and I can run you through before we take you down, hopefully at least one of you will absorb enough knowledge not to ruin anything. Shall we?”

\-----~

Two hours later, Arthur was _still_ explaining why they couldn't make things pop up out of nowhere.

“Look. For the last time, your subconscious can't be controlled, that's why it is even CALLED a subconscious! When you do something that makes it obvious someone is meddling, the dreamers SUBCONSCIOUS will attack the intruder. The same way white blood cells attack an infection. And just like white blood cells can't be called off, nor can the projections of my subconscious. Therefor, you cannot just dream up a bigger gun to fight them with. You have to operate that on stealth. Wait until no one is around to see the change and then change it quickly. If you really wanted a bigger gun, duck into a dark alley, look that no one is looking, then change the gun, then come back out. Not to mention, this aspect is moot because there shouldn't be any use of guns down there anyway!” Arthur looked at Yusuf with exasperation, who was painstakingly drawing out small image that was essentially a stick figure with a BFG9000 and dozens of little stick figures coming at them with knives and pitchforks. He was just grabbing the red marker to add blood.

“Alright, obviously if Yusuf's little doodle there doesn't get the point across, you'll have to learn from experience, which will be the first time we experience it. Because we haven't died in the dreams. Or I haven't. Because we haven't been stupid. Understand?” Both agents nodded and Arthur had the distinct feeling they didn't really understand. Yusuf looked up at him.

“Think they're ready?”

“As ready as we can make them. The projections have never hurt me so their mistakes are really on them.”

“What about limbo? And their totems?” Arthur groaned inwardly. Eames and Mercutio looked at each other with confusion.

“Limbo only happened because we forgot which was reality and lost control. The tokens will prevent that. They'll both need their own temporary ones until we can make them better ones. How well do either of you know your guns?” Both replied immediately.

“Intimately.”

“Better than any lover.”

“...such wonderful input from the both of you. Here's the idea; the dreams can seem real as you're in them, no matter how strange they are. It can be very easy in a more developed dream to forget you're even dreaming, so we need something that only we ourselves intimately know. The dreamer doesn't know how the other totems will react, only how their own will, and if it doesn't react like you expect, you're still in a dream. If you ever doubt reality, check your totem. We'll make you better ones when we have the time.” Both agents nodded. It was time to begin.

\------~

“This doesn't look like anything.”

“That's because I haven't dreamed anything yet other than a street. My mind automatically produces a place to stand, but after that, I create the rest. Yusuf and I are still toying with trying to imagine the setting first so it's ready when I get here. Now, don't make anything, control your imagination until I make a basic setup.”

Right out of the blue, a telephone pole sprung up from the ground. Arthur felt a distinct discomfort in his head.

“What did I _just_ say.” The telephone pole disappeared.

“That's not any better, it isn't things showing up that's suspicious, it's things changing in general. Don't. Change. Anything. We're down here for three hours, so long as you don't fuck anything up, so try to control yourselves. Now.”

Arthur closed his eyes, remembering his summer home from growing up. When he opened his eyes, a tall beach house was standing before him on light golden sands that sloped down to the beach, turquoise waves washing over each other, the water line coming and then receding. Both Eames and Mercutio looked... calm? That was unexpected.

“Follow me.”

As he started toward the front door of the house, Arthur heard a slight click behind him and turned back to see Eames sliding the clip out of his gun and then right back in. Odd that he would be doing that now, but not otherwise suspicious. He fished keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door, stepping inside. There was an eerie quiet about the house as he climbed the stairs after automatically kicking off his shoes. The soft thunks behind him told him Eames and Mercutio were following him.

At the top of the stairwell, Arthur looked around. A living room with two sofas, perpendicular to each other, one facing large windows that looked out over the sandy hills and into the ocean. To the left of that, a dining room, perpendicular to that, the kitchen. The table looked crooked, which was odd. It was never crooked. Arthur noted it mentally. He turned the corner into the kitchen.

The counters were bloody. There was blood on the walls, dripping down off the cabinets. The sink had a bloody knife in it. The scene felt familiar, though he didn't recognize it. “Which one of you is doing this?” Arthur's words were quiet, poisonous even to his own ears. “This isn't a joke, this isn't a game, you cannot just FUCK AROUND.” On his heel, he turned and shoved his way past the two-man wall that was Eames and Mercutio looking very blank-faced. He turned the corner up the next set of stairs, carefully stepping over the trail of blood. There was a bullet hole in the wall directly opposite the top step, a huge splatter of blood at shoulder-height. There was another trail from there that spoke of a dragged body. Arthur followed it, no longer listening for the thunk of footfalls behind him. The trail led to the bedroom. This, he definitely recognized.

There was a small child in the corner of the bedroom. He was crying quietly, so quietly, shaking, he didn't see Arthur. He was looking a body on the bed. Their father. His father. His mother was next to him, curled up like she was asleep, the only proof that it could be anything else was the stain of blood under her head along her pillow and the small hole an inch above the high curve of her ear. His father's arm was draped backwards across her body.

There was click, like a gun being cocked, and then a split second of pain, and then he was waking up with a scream in his flat with Yusuf jumping out of his skin. Mercutio followed, and then Eames. Eames was last. Why was Eames last?

“What the bloody hell?! I just put you down a few seconds ago!” Arthur didn't care, Arthur ripped the needle out of his arm and jumped up from the couch, staring at Mercutio and Eames.

“Get out.”

“Arthur...”

“I don't care which one of you did it, I don't care why, I do not care. Get out.”

“Did what, Arthur?” His eyes were sharp on Mercutio, Mercutio who was looking up at him with honest confusion. “What happened, Arthur? Why did you imagine that? Where did it come from?” So he didn't know. That left Eames.

Eames who was distinctly looking at the gun in his hands like he wasn't sure what to do with it.

“You.”

“Me.” His voice was cracked, dull. “Me...” All three of them were looking at Eames now, Eames with his gun across his open palms. Mercutio spoke before Arthur.

“Eugene. That was why it looked familiar. It was Eugene. I have seen the file before but never read it. He is that Arthur?”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry, but what about Eugene?” It was Yusuf.

“My father. He had a vacation home on the beach in Eugene, Oregon, because it was so beautiful and he liked they they shared a name. When I was fifteen, he was murdered there, with my mother. My little brother was there, I was with friends in Paris. I only saw a few pictures of the crime scene, so it wasn't my memory or imagination that filled it in at the house.”

Yusuf was looking ever more confused, Arthur growing steadily more impatient, and Eames and Mercutio more quiet. “Wait, Arthur, start at the beginning. What happened?”

He crossed his arms in frustration and rolled his eyes. “I needed a setting to teach them the basics about constructing in a dream, and I chose the beach house. When we got inside, it looked liked the night my parents were killed. Even my baby brother was in the room crying, as a projection. Then someone did something and we woke up. Mercutio doesn't seem to know shit about it, and before we went in, Eames checked the load of his gun, I heard him. He probably shot us all, which would have killed us, which woke us up, apparently, and given how easy it was for him, I doubt he's operating on a guess.” His gaze turned back to Eames. “I want you to get out.”

“Arthur, darling, you can't-”

“I can, and I WILL. You don't seem to understand, Eames, you're playing with fucking fire! And not just your fire, you aren't betting just your life, you're betting mine and his! And yet for such a big gamble, you seem to be hiding some cards up your sleeves you promised you didn't have! How did you know killing us would work? That was purely theoretical in my notes, and not anything to do with how to make the machine, so you have to have read my notes, in which case, you lied at the risk of our lives that you knew nothing! You _will_ leave, and you will take MI6 with you.” His arms weren't cross, he wasn't screaming or crying. No, he was doing as his father had always done. Hands in the pockets, speak firmly, hard gaze. They assume you feel nothing when they feel nothing from you, and it scares them, and they will stop. It had not failed him so far. It had never failed his father, so far as he knew.

And yet, it was about to fail him. Eames stood, hands in his pockets, gaze firm, voice nearly as hard yet wavering a little. The mirror image of his own father, Arthur though, and yet he couldn't possibly know...

“Arthur. I knew your father, I know that same stance, we once worked together. I was a lot younger back then, nearly your age, but his threat level was supposed to be low risk. It was just supposed to be surveillance when he was under, make sure no one was going to try anything, and I wasn't trained enough to handle who came.”

“Really? Who came? A pack of pitbulls with rubber teeth? What, couldn't beat them off with your suave looks? Bit hard without opposable th-”

“Arthur.”

“ _What?_ ”

“It was the CIA. They came for him for the same reason they came for you. That was my first assignment and I was useless against them. When I woke up, they'd got your mother in her sleep and he'd tried to get up to her when he was pulled from the dream. They killed him. They only reason they didn't find your brother was because he'd been in the basement looking for ice cream and fallen asleep.”

“That doesn't even make any sense, my parents were American, why would they have MI6 protecting them and not go to the CIA first? And what kind of bullshit are you trying to pass on me? He couldn't possibly be doing the same thing I was doing, I just started it!”

“You don't know your father very well then, Arthur. He was an ambassador for a number of years, when you were just a boy, and did a lot of his work in London. When the time came, he picked the government he trusted, and it wasn't his own. He'd been doing the work for years but hadn't made it as far as you. After the first threats, he wanted to ensure the idea would live on safely. Why do you think you've had it on your mind for so many years? You always remember your father talking about dreams where one was awake, but never quite there, and never quite asleep. It was only a matter of time before you started picking up where he had left it. We simply hadn't expected you to get so far so quick.”

“So you read my notes despite your promise not to. And you knew my father yet you failed to tell me. Oh let's not forget that you happily shot both myself and Mercutio after filling _my_ dream with the death of my parents.”

“Of all the things to focus on, Arthur, y-”

“ _The point,_ Eames, is that you lied to me. You lied to me after I trusted you for three years. You _continued_ to lie to me after you were happy taking something very private from me that you knew I had dreamed about for years. You _lied_. Get out.”


End file.
